


Victorious girl-friend

by fennishjournal (Shimi)



Category: Norse Mythology
Genre: Animal Transformation, Bisexual Female Character, Breastfeeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Childbirth, F/M, Feminist Themes, Gender Roles, Genderplay, Genderqueer Character, Goddesses, Historical, Magic, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Shapeshifting, Torture, Trans Character, Transfic Mini Fest, Transformation, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi/pseuds/fennishjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If there ever was a man who could hold her interest, she thinks, it would be him.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>From the original sources we know exactly 5 things about Sigyn:<br/>She is a goddess<br/>She is Loki's wife<br/>She gives birth to two sons, one of whom is later turned into a wolf and kills his brother<br/>Her kenning is incantation-fetter<br/>Loki is described as the burden of Sigyn's arms</p><p>She is often regarded as the paragon of loyal, nurturing femininity but I can't help but feel that any woman who can love Loki must have more to her than that. This is my attempt at giving Sigyn some backstory and agency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sigyn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mresundance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/gifts).



> Written for this Transfic Mini Fest 3 prompt by mresundance:
> 
> "Norse mythology, Sigyn/Loki. Loki from Sigyn's POV; how does she love this trickster, this shapeshifting deity, and how does his ever shifting gender and sex delight her?"

Innocent Sigyn they call her, sweet Sigyn they call her. They see her gentle features and they think her childlike and weak. Not one of them has ever got close enough to touch the core of stone at the center of her being. Not a single one of them has ever seen her sweetness for what it is: A part of her, oh yes, but also a protective camouflage that keeps her invisible. That makes her seem harmless and unthreatening.

 

How she hates them all: The big, burly men with their weapons and boasts, who call each other “woman” to wound and insult. The cunning wives who hide their own strength so as not to threaten their husbands'. She hates them, she despises them, she laughs at them in secret.

 

Not even the most cunning among them seems to have realised what she has known to be true since she was old enough to think: That there is a strength and a courage that has nothing to do with the kinds of fights warriors long for. What bard sings of the iron will of the mother who has buried eight children and still has love left for the remaining three? What stories are told of the patience of women, waiting for their lovers to return, year after year, the entire burden of the household resting on them? What warrior is strong enough, brave enough, to spend weeks in a sick room smelling of vomit and decay, sleeping in stolen snatches, yet never wavering in kindness and care? What chieftain has ever endured the agony and terror of a birth stretched over too many hours and yet gone on to bear another child?

 

She despises them, all of them, who cannot see the strength of womenfolk and yet long for it. She hates them for the self-hatred and disgust they feel for those parts of themselves that long for a woman's care, that need their wives and crave their protection. When her brothers were boys they would come to her and hide in her skirts when frightened. They would let her sooth their pains and feel safe in her arms. Now that they are grown men they would be shamed to remember this. Yet, is she any less brave and strong than she was when they were children? She has not lost her power to banish the monsters, yet they would scorn her if she offered.

 

She hates, and she scorns, and she raves silently, vowing never to take a husband at all if it means forfeiting the power that is hers, the freedom that is hers, the courage that is her very own.


	2. Loki

She is fifteen, a grown woman, fiercely lonely yet joyous in her freedom, when she sees Loki for the first time. The sight of him, that lithe, supple body, the mischievous grey eyes, pluck at a hidden string inside her. A shiver crawls down her spine as she watches him jest with the others, teasing them, goading them.

 

He is mocking Thor for the beautiful figure he cut in the bridal gown in which he recovered Mjölnir, but it is instantly clear to her that his target is less the feminine disguise they donned and more Thor's quite visible embarrassment at it. She has to look down, letting her hair fall in front of her face to hide her smile as she fills the drinking horns of the men around her, but she can't help the spark of delight his wit is striking in her.

 

She begins to make inquiries the very next day and the more she hears about Loki, the more she knows she needs to meet him. If there ever was a man who could hold her interest, she thinks, it would be him. She has seen the quickness of his thoughts on his mobile face and she can tell that his power is not built on enfeebling those around him. The brazenness of his tricks, his courage and utter disregard for the rules that govern the lives of men and Gods all fill her with glee, and she cannot wait to hear the tales of his adventures from his own lips.

 

The strength of his thighs, the nimbleness of his fingers, the crooked line of his smirking mouth steal their way into her dreams, leaving her breathless and wet. For the first time in her life she knows what it means to burn with desire for a man and it is glorious.

 

 

 

Much later, when they have met and laughed, chased each other and fled into the high grass and bracken crowning the hills around them, when they have caught and tumbled each other, breathless with laughter and excitement, when they are lying together for the first time, and he steals his hand into her gown and caresses her breast, she looks up at the blue sky above and laughs wildly. For she knows that she is his conquest as much as he is hers, that they saw each other and wanted, that here finally, is a man who is neither afeared of her strength nor delighted by her weakness. She gives herself to him openly and joyously, her body burning with delight at his deft touches.

 

Afterwards, as they are lying together panting, facing each other across the rumpled grass between them, she starts coaxing his stories out of him. He tells her of the Iron Wood where he grew up, of becoming blood-brother to the All-father, of his travels with Thor. When he tells her about the theft of Brisingamen she laughs out loud but when he tells her that he turned into a falcon to carry it off a second time she can't help the sceptical frown creasing her brow.

 

“Is it true, then” she asks, “that you can turn into any shape you want?” She sounds incredulous, she knows, but even among the Æsir this gift is rare.

 

Something mischievous blinks up in Loki's eyes at that. He looks at her calculatingly for a second and then suddenly, in the place where he just was, an adder is writhing in the sunlight. Sigyn goes still, very still, as her mother had taught her to do when in the presence of a snake. After a moment she thinks she recognises something in the cold eyes of the reptile, even a knowing smirk around its mouth, and so, when it darts forwards, she doesn't flinch.

 

In the next second the snake hovering over her has transformed itself back into the man. Sigyn can't suppress the little sigh of relief that escapes when the eyes she is looking into turn human again, the reptile coldness lingering only for a moment.

 

The look Loki is giving her is challenging and she realises suddenly that he is testing her. Had she flinched or screamed in terror he would no doubt have treated her kindly and then escorted her back to her father's hall. Now, however, she can see his quick mind working behind his smooth brow.

 

“Did you think this would scare me, Loki Laufejarson?” Her tone is light, mocking and just a little challenging. “Did you expect me to run screeching at your trick?”

 

His face lights up with joy.

 

“No, truly, I did not!” He exclaims. “Does nothing scare you, then? Not even being alone with a man so perverted he has given birth to horses?”

 

She laughs out loud at that. “Oh, there are plenty of things I am afeared of,” she says more soberly, “but your perversions are not among them.”

 

“Will you show me more of your forms?” She begs. “Is it true that you can turn into fishes and insects as well as horses and birds? What is it like to be a salmon?”

 

She can see how her questions delight him and soon he is changing before her so rapidly that she almost grows dizzy as flippers change into claws, change into wings, change into the smooth white arms of a young girl.

 

She knows that she has passed a strange kind of test but more clearly than that she knows that she will never be able to love another man without growing deathly bored after witnessing this. She feels drunk with delight as Loki, the silver mare, allows her to ride on her back and deliciously terrified, as Loki, the wolf, bares its fangs at her and snarls.

 

 

 

They keep playing and wrestling, dancing and chasing until the sun sets and the air cools around them. Finally, they lie down silently, staring up at the night sky and its patterns.

 

“So, if you can change form at will,” she asks him, “what are you? Woman or man? Beast or God?”

 

He smiles broadly, mischievously. “Both and neither, heart's dearest. All and nothing and everything at the same time.”

 

She tries to wrap her head around what he has just told her. What might the world be like for somebody who sees it as falcon and bear, salmon and fly, maid and crone, warrior and pregnant mare, all at the same time? Brilliant and exhilarating, she suspects. Confusing and terrifying. Beautiful, cruel and ever changing. It makes her shudder to think about, but at the same time she longs for the freedom it affords him.

 

She reaches out a hand and entwines their fingers, feeling his bright and restless energy writhe next to her, even as his body is lying utterly still.

 

She digs her other hand into the roots of the wet grass under her, anchoring herself and him to the deepness of the earth. It will be months yet before he proposes, but it is at this moment that Sigyn Barasdottir resolves to be the fixed point, the ever open arms, the never-dying hearth fire in the mad and wonderful world Loki Laufejarson inhabits.


	3. The ways in which Sigyn loves Loki (An Ode by Sigyn as she was pregnant with Narvi)

Sigyn loves Loki for the gentleness of his arms on which he carries her over their threshold.

Sigyn loves Loki for his disrespect and painful humour.

Sigyn delights in the soft tickle of Loki's fur under her hand and the cool glide of his scales over her legs.

Sigyn loves the softness of Loki's breasts and the hot length of his sex in her hand.

Sigyn loves Loki's strength and cunning in equal measures, feeling for him all the tenderness and rabid protectiveness of a she-bear.

Sigyn loves that Loki loves her without making her small, that he respects her without fearing her, and yet is not afraid of her weaknesses.

Sigyn loves that Loki holds no scorn for the arts of women, be they seidr or bread baking, that he could not respect her more if she was an aged warrior with a dozen kills to her name.

Sigyn loves the paternal care Loki has for their unborn child and the wandering spirit that will always draw him away.

Sigyn loves Loki because he knows how his absence pains her but he never pities her.

Sigyn loves that Loki is never the same person from day to day, that she may go to bed with a maiden and wake up next to a horse, that the cat purring on her lap will most likely turn out to be her husband in one of his disguises.

 

 

 

Sigyn loves discovering her own desire for women in bed with her husband – a statement so absurd and right that it makes her laugh out loud with delight. Never had she guessed how shockingly good it could be to feel another female body against hers, to slide her fingers into the wet, hot, slipperiness of somebody else's opening. They take turns taking each other hard and soft, slow and fast, and sometimes, when they are writhing against each other and Loki changes back and forth between his many forms in ecstasy, she knows that he is truly the only person in all the worlds she could ever have loved.

 

Sigyn loves Loki because he is the only person she has ever known who is always, utterly himself no matter what form he takes.


	4. Midwinter

The first time it happens, Narvi has almost survived his first winter but it seems that spring will never come, and Sigyn is feeling old and sucked dry. She dreads the moment when she will have to lift the boy to her bosom, her nipples raw and cracked, her breasts haggard and dry. The storeboxes that held their grain are almost empty and they used up the last of the stored apples yesterday.

 

Children and old people are dying everywhere and even the Gods are suffering.

 

 

 

Sigyn is cowering in front of the fire, chewing on a strip of dried meat, watching her sleeping child with his pale cheeks and thin arms, thinking thoughts of death and dread.

 

Suddenly, with a bang that shakes the beams to the rafters, the door flies open and Loki strides in, bringing the howl of the winter wind and a flurry of snow with him. He slams the door shut on the storm outside and in the dim light of the fire Sigyn realises that he is carrying the carcass of a deer over his shoulders. She staggers to her feet, her mouth watering at the thought of so much fresh meat, and together they drag the animal off his shoulders and lay it down in front of the hearth.

 

Without a word they each take their knives and begin to skin the young buck, the smell of blood rich and enticing in the air. Loki opens the belly with a long cut and reaches inside, withdrawing his hand with a piece of the fresh liver. He holds it out to her and she snatches it up, digging her teeth into the raw meat. Never in her life has she understood how women could force down this disgusting meal that is always reserved for those with child or nursing. Now it tastes like the most wonderful food on earth, her body greedy for the freshness and life it promises.

 

 

 

Soon the deer is stripped and cleaned and Loki is spitting pieces of meat and putting them over the fire to roast. Sigyn has warmed water and they quickly clean off the worst of the dried blood from their hands and arms. It is only now, with the worst of her hunger assuaged and the smell of fresh, roasting meat in the air that Sigyn is able to feel the joy her husband's return has kindled in her. She looks up at him, his hair and beard lanky with sweat and melted ice, his face unutterably sweet to her under the grime, and feels tears stinging her eyes.

 

“Sigyn, my sweet,” he says, “I've been away too long.”

 

He pulls her into his arms, the fur of his cloak falling around them, and for the first time since Loki left them to visit his kin in Jötunheimr, Sigyn cries. They stand like this for long moments and Sigyn can feel how thin he has grown, how little flesh there is on his bones.

 

Then the babe begins to wail and Sigyn cannot suppress the shudder which runs through her at the sound. “Have you been nursing the boy all this time?” He asks surprised.

 

She instantly becomes defiant. “You have seen for yourself what happens to children who are weaned too early and who live on nothing but gruel and goat milk! Besides, we have barely enough food for those who can chew.”

 

She feels utterly weary and can't help the new surge of tears that is now wetting her face. Loki gently pushes her away from his chest and looks at her lovingly for a moment.

 

“Light of my eyes, it seems to me you have forgotten whom you have for a husband.” His tone is half mocking, half compassionate and then, before her eyes she can see him change. For a moment his figure blurs like hot air in the sun and then he is standing in front of her in his female form. The boy gives another plaintive cry and to her surprise she can see milk spotting the front of Loki's tunic at the sound.

 

He shakes off his cloak, bends down and picks up his son. Narvi, who has not seen his father in many months, starts to cry in earnest with fear and surprise, but he soon quiets down as Loki pulls up his tunic and puts the child to his breast.

 

The rhythmic suckling of the babe is the only sound for a long while, as Sigyn stares at her husband in astonishment. Then she closes her eyes and sinks down to squat by the fire, feeling as if a huge burden had been lifted from her back.

 

Her husband is home and her boy is being fed, and suddenly she can almost believe they can make it through the winter.

 

Loki starts to sing a song she has never heard before, heavy and guttural in the language of his people, but that nevertheless reminds her of the nursing songs her mother and aunts had sung for their children. The gentle rhythm makes her feel safe and at peace and soon she has fallen asleep in front of the fire, Loki's presence a steady shield behind her.

 

 

 

When she gives birth to Vali she scandalises all the women by insisting on Loki's presence at her side.

 

She does it partly because, if there ever was anyone she trusted, it is this man with the silver tongue and the flighty moods. Loki's barbed wit keeps her sane through the tearing agony of the contractions, the insults he flings at her relatives making her laugh between desperate gasps for air.

 

The other reason she makes him stay is to remind both him and herself that he knows this ordeal inside out in a way no other man ever will. It gives her a strange kind of comfort to know that they share this experience, that he has been here, too, in the slow hours of dawn when time seems to stretch like chewed sinew.

 

When the child is born she sends all the other women from the birthing chamber and then she holds the boy first to her own and then to his breast, feeding him on both of them; father's milk and mother's mingling in his mouth.


	5. Incantation-fetter

It is dusk and Sigyn is circling her hall in firm strides, her palms extended to the ground, feeling the power rise up from the darkness below. What neither the Æsir know nor the Vanir suspect, is a secret hidden deep in the geode of her heart: Sigyn has always heard the stones talk, has always felt the earth breathe. Even when she was a child in her father's hall, playing with pebbles on the rushes, the stones would whisper their secrets to her.

 

Now she is swaying in the rhythm of the bones of the earth, feeling the drumbeat of granite along her naked toes, drawing power up from the ground to protect her family. As she is walking, she is weaving an iron bond, encircling her children asleep inside, encircling her husband far away where he is hiding from the wrath of the Gods after his refusal to weep for Baldr. She is keeping her home safe from incantations and spells by the power of stone and earth and iron.

 

No-one has taught her this. It is a knowledge far older than the Æsir and Vanir, older perhaps even than the Jötnar out in Iron Wood, but one that has always been clear as water to Sigyn.

 

She finishes the fifth circle around the hall and comes to a halt, her back to all that she is protecting, her palms held up to ward off any harm from the outside.

 

“Nothing heard. Nothing seen. Nothing happened,” she chants below her breath, over and over again, feeling the protective wall of her love and the dark power of the stones grows up into an impenetrable wall around those that are hers.


	6. In the cave

After the world ends, after her son is turned into a wolf and tears his brother to pieces, after all the Goddesses and Gods show their true faces and bind her husband to three rocks with bonds of iron, fashioned from his son's innards, after her whole world ends and she becomes a statue holding a bowl – Sigyn cannot weep.

 

She wants to, oh, she wants to.

She wants to weep for her sons.

She wants to weep for her husband, who was made to be free and ever-changing and who is now writhing in agonized captivity.

She wants to weep for herself and the heart in her breast that has broken so often it is no more than a heap of dust.

 

 

 

Sometimes she will dream, standing up, holding the bowl. Sometimes her eyes will fall closed and pictures will play on the inside of her lids like scenes seen from far away.

 

She sees herself as a young bride, running out of the doors of her hall to greet Loki after one of his long journeys. She sees how he picks her up and swings her around, how he kisses her passionately.

 

She sees them as two maidens, running through fields of flowers, silently picking seven kinds of blossoms to put under their pillows for Midsommar – though there is no doubt in either of their hearts as to whom they are supposed to marry.

 

She sees Loki, tense and feverish, whittling an arrow out of a twig of mistletoe. She had never dared ask him why he felt the compulsion to do this and she does not dare to, now.

 

She sees her men at work in their fields, Loki, Narvi and Vali working in the rhythm of people who have a bone deep trust in each other. She sees the delight Loki takes in his sons.

 

She sees herself in his arms under the canopy of stars that witnessed their first coupling, under the smoke darkened rafters of their hall, under the rustling leaves of oak trees. She remembers her joy in him/her, her freedom to be whoever she was because he/she had shown her the joy of transformation, her lust and delight for him/her in all his/her forms.

 

She remembers her oath, given in private, only to herself but more binding than any marriage vows in any of the nine worlds: To love Loki as Loki was, for now, for ever, enduring the end of the world if need be.

 

And she weeps.


End file.
